A Word A Day: Meetings
by LunaStorm
Summary: Seven instances of people meeting. VARIOUS FANDOMS, including Final Fantasy VIII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy X-2, Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter, Cardcaptor Sakura, Artemis Fowl, Yu-Gi-Oh! and Eragon. Warning for AU and/or Xover pairings.
1. Quistis and Rinoa: FLEETING

**Quistis Treepe** (Square's Final Fantasy VIII)

meeting

**Rinoa Heartilly** (Square's Final Fantasy VIII)

Set during the Timber Broadcasting Station episode

* * *

**Fleeting**

Ephemeral; fluttering; inclined to disappear.

Fleeting.

That, in a word, is Quistis' first impression of the future Sorceress.

Elusive and evanescent, like a fugacious dream.

A glimpse of light blue – her dress – of shiny black – her beautiful, long hair. An impression of worry etched on her lovely face, so pale, a momentary amusement at the way she chews her lower lip nervously.

And an unexpected sense of kinship, of similarity, at the confusion reflected in her dark brown eyes, the warring wishes which, Quistis thinks for a mere instant, mirror so well her own mood, her own struggle between the training that is forcing her to realize the full scope of this mess of a situation and the affections and desires that push her towards denial.

Of course, Quistis is too distracted to pay much notice to the impressions her analytical mind is taking in and storing safely for later review, like she's been trained to do for half her life.

But a part of her, a deeply buried one that only comes out very awkwardly in handfuls of moments that never play out as she wishes and always leave her humiliated and crushed, is soaring with sudden hope at that fleeting feeling of affinity, at the rocking belief that their souls are very possibly resonating with each other – even if, the coolly logical majority of her sharp mind points out with disdain which she isn't sure is directed to the world or to the raven-haired beauty or, most likely, to herself, the girl who is fleetingly but surely captivating her is not even _noticing_ her.

How could she, with the two best gunbladers in the world mere steps from her? Quistis knows that for all her supposed successes, she will never truly compare.

All of this is immaterial however, fanciful fantasizing that should be left for leave nights and that Quistis can only afford on the field by virtue of being a genius, and that is going on only in a mostly muted part of her brain anyway.

Her conscious attention is otherwise engaged at the moment, focused on the mission she needs to complete despite the complications that keep arising, preoccupied with Seifer... Seifer who's snapped, her charge, her student, and perhaps more, without her noticing, and how could she miss something like this, when he's so important to her, despite everything, despite the fact that she never knew how to handle him and now it's the same as always, she's hurt by his behaviour and chocking on her heartache and most of all she's lost and uncertain, projecting determination and a collected, level-headed façade that only comes out as annoying bossiness because in reality she has no idea how to deal with this...

But luckily, Squall is there – Squall who has rejected her so hurtfully, and didn't even realize it, Squall who is so cold and passionless and emotionally stunted, yet for some reason knows how to connect with people like she will never learn to, Squall who is a natural at taking charge and making the world go as it should, a born leader even if he stubbornly refuses to recognize it – and she has no qualms dumping her responsibility on his shoulders, because he can bear it - unlike her, he will not be conflicted in doing what must be done, because he has the strength and will to go through with the mission and the clarity of mind to figure out how, because, most of all, Squall is the only one who can get Seifer to acknowledge him, truly acknowledge him, and it has always been like that between those two, and she might be jealous of this connection of theirs, in a way, but she is also counting on it, counting on Squall to bring her student back when she so clearly is unable to.

Counting on Squall being better suited at handling command of this mission – of any mission, really – and it is a bitter pill to swallow, but it is a pill filled with truth and Quistis, for all her faults, is nothing but brutally honest with herself.

And that is why she knows that handing over her hard-worked-for but still not earned leadership to Squall is the best choice she could possibly ever make.

And that, too, is why she sees the gaze Rinoa offers him – him, who is so cold Shiva looks cuddly in comparison, who is so wrapped up in his own head he'll barely acknowledge anyone who is not labelled clearly as 'client' or 'team-mate', and even then, only so far as the labels can cover them, or perhaps, explain them – and Quistis recognizes it, the admiration, the determination to melt the ice, the budding affection and possibility of success and accepts it, all of it, even as a fugacious pang stabs her heart, regret for something that might have been, under different circumstances, under a different sun – if she was different, stronger inside, more worthy of the radiance that Rinoa's smile promises – but now will never be, not even in her fantasies, because Squall is here and he absorbs gazes and loyalty and devotion like his black outfit absorbs light, unwillingly, even unknowingly, but surely and inexorably...

Quistis' attraction for the black-haired Sorceress-to-be is nothing more than a momentary fantasy anyway.

Fleeting...

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._


	2. Yuffie and Rikku: STUBBORNESS

**Yuffie Kisaragi **(Square's Final Fantasy VII Collection)

meeting

**Rikku** (Square's Final Fantasy X and X-2)

Set sometime during their wanderings

* * *

**Stubborness**

The great and wonderful ninja carefully lowers herself from a rocky edge, body perfectly blended in the shadows that are the awesome stealth warrior's natural environment.

Giddy with excitement, she runs lightly along the rock wall, darting in and out of the streaks of moonlight pouring from the holes in the ceiling of the cave.

She stops a few steps away from her target, perfectly invisible in her stillness, quivering with exultation at the beautiful, beautiful sight of her treasure.

A faintly glowing, marvellously spherical light blue materia, shining like the precious jewel it is, set in its altar of naturally carved stone.

A new kind of materia!

Beautifully formed, splendidly charged!

And all _hers_!

Sighing in pleasure, the most awesome ninja princess holds out a hand to reach-

"Gotcha!" cries an enthusiastic, lively voice, and her prize is swept away right under her nose, her hands barely grasping air, in vain, while the nimble fingers of _someone else_ bounce the pretty orb lightly, taking it further and further away from her.

"Hey!" shouts Yuffie furiously, jumping out of the shadows and planting her tiny self right in front of her new enemy with a belligerent scowl.

She is _not_ impressed with the skimpy bikini top and khaki shorts (almost identical to her own!) of her lean and agile adversary. She is even less impressed with the fact that the fiendish _wench_ has the gull to be dancing in glee, countless tiny braids bouncing merrily around her head and shoulders.

Rikku stops, surprised, spotting the dark haired tomboy glaring at her from underneath a black and white bandanna. Her green eyes widen as she slides her gaze down the navy blue tank-top and bare midriff, the shorts folded over a belted hip-pack and the khaki coloured, laced knee-high boots; all of it wrapped around a small, fit body so taut with anger it's trembling.

"Huh?" the Al-Bhed girl asks intelligently.

"That. is. Mine!" cries the ninja princess, dramatically pointing a tense finger at the softly glowing bauble.

"What? No way! I got it first!" is the instantaneous, scowling response and Rikku clenches the sphere with both hands, drawing it back protectively and making a rather silly attempt at sneering.

With a furious huff, Yuffie stomps her foot, all the while glaring murderously; the moment her opponent turns her back to her with a haughty sniff, blabbering some nonsense about _finders keepers, _the great ninja princess tackles her and with her awesome skills she promptly steals the beautiful bauble from the other girls' very hand.

"Hey!" cries the tanned blonde, indignant. "Give that back!"

"Nuh-uh! It's _mine!_" retorts Yuffie, childishly poking her tongue out at the other thief.

Before she realizes it, Rikku's sleigh hand snatches the sphere back, leaving Yuffie to stare at her with open-mouthed shock and mounting outrage. In a moment, the Al-Bhed tucks it under an arm and raises an index admonishingly at the other girl.

She's barely opened her mouth to deliver a mockingly sanctimonious rebuke when Yuffie steals the light blue sphere again, passing Rikku by like a swift gust of wind and dancing away with the glowing orb securely held to her chest.

"Why, you!" shouts Rikku, springing to give chase.

"My treasure! Mine!" retorts Yuffie sprinting away, in vain, as the blonde is hot on her heels and before she knows it the globe is being wrenched from her hands. Only to be snatched back a moment later thanks to an awesome acrobatic kick, then lost again to a swift back-flip of Rikku's, then grabbed once more.

"Just who do you think you are!" cries the Al-Bhed, peeved.

"I am the champion of the earth and sky... The single white rose of Wutai!" Yuffie retorts obnoxiously.

"I don't care! Gimmie that...!"

"Never!"

The sought after bauble passes from hand to hand with as much speed and swiftness as the two agile thieves can move. They dance around each other with powerful grace and childish determination, robbing each other almost more fast than they can keep up, and dramatic lines are thrown around with all the flair of their bubbly, cocky personalities.

"Just give it up, and it'll be easier!" yells Yuffie launching herself over her opponent and bouncing away the instant her fingers close around her coveted treasure.

"Get outta here kid. Ya bother me," is the irritated retort, as Rikku pivots and jumps into a side aerial flip that gets her into the perfect position to steal the sphere back again.

She doesn't quite manage to sprint away however before a quick wall run and a light drop bring Yuffie down on her back with a childish war-cry and the precious sphere is once again twisted out of her hands as she falls to her knees.

"Will you stop that!" she bellows, jumping up again and lunging at the other girl.

The mullish, stubborn look she receives for her troubles is answer enough.

Ten fast and furious minutes later, the light-blue sphere rolls gently away on the rocky floor while the two stand facing each other, panting and glaring, hands planted on their hips, unwillingly mirroring each other's pose: matching scowls on their faces and a sparkling defiance in the gleam of their eyes.

Rikku's yellow scarf is flapping and the pair of kunai knives Yuffie has tied to the ends of her headband to hang down her back are coming dangerously loose.

Each is boring her own gaze into the other's eyes; their bodies are vibrating in the challenge of their clashing personalities.

It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._


	3. Edmund and Jill: WAITING

**Edmund Pevensie **(C. S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia series)

meeting

**Jill Pole** (C. S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia series)

Set in England, during the holidays after The Silver Chair

* * *

**Waiting**

Of course, Edmund has heard a lot about her.

Eustace's letters have been filled of nothing but her as of late. Not that he blames his cousin!

Friends of Narnia in this world of theirs are uncommon to say the least and the occasions to meet few and far between, and it is hard to cope with the feelings of isolation that sometimes assault them – soaring souls confined to a world that often feels like a prison, sovereigns in exile with little hope of tasting the sweet air of Home again.

It is, he knows it deeply, a wondrous comfort to have someone to talk to, someone who feels the same, to share the experiences – and the regrets, and the melancholic longing – with. Someone who can understand.

One of the reasons he has been so eager to meet her in person, to be acquainted with this friend of Eustace that has suddenly joined the privileged minority of those who have met Aslan and walked the Narnian soil he always will love more than he can possibly say.

Eager to meet her, eager to befriend her for himself, eager to hear of his Home and tell her, in turn, because he is sure she will be just as keen on listening to their stories as he is to know hers.

He's come all the way from Oxford for just this reason, despite his exams drawing nearer and his ending up having to work on the paper due the following Monday, sandwiched between a burly smoker and an old lady with more luggage than a suitcase shop, in a cramped and half-lit compartment, because he's jumped on the first train, ignoring the fact that he isn't supposed to leave the school on his own, as soon as Lucy wrote to him that '_she_' would be staying at the Pevensies' for a couple days around the fancy ball she is planning to attend.

He smiles in anticipation as he lets himself inside his parents' unassuming home.

He wouldn't miss this meeting for anything - short of one of his sisters' happiness being on the line, or an actual order of Peter's.

Hearing the account of their adventures – and what news of his beloved country they can bring – second-hand might be only a feeble substitute for truly going there, but he wishes for it nonetheless, waiting with less patience than he's grown to have in most occasions, because as Lucy so aptly puts it, it's better than nothing.

He knows Peter and Lucy feel the same, anyway. His sister's letter was positively _gushing_. And filled with the same exact thoughts that have been warming his mind and his heart since he picked up the phone to hear Eustace's excited, almost shouted news – that he'd been back, that he'd travelled through Narnia and to the North, that he'd seen Caspian again.

He thinks of the closing lines of Lucy's letter: _I know, dearest Brother, that I cannot possibly put into words the warm, light-filled feeling that makes my heart soar at the idea of meeting another Daughter of Eve who has breathed the pure tasty air of our beloved Home, and who has met Him..._

Lucy might not be able to word her joy as well as she wishes, but she doesn't need to. Edmund shares it in full.

One of the reasons he's waited so yearningly to meet this special girl; one of the reasons why he's expected to like her from the very start.

But nothing has prepared him for just _how much_ he would like her.

He is still in the small entryway, taking off his rain-damped coat, when the sound of his sister's gay voice drifts down from the rooms above.

He raises his eyes right on time to watch the auburn-haired girl he's heard so much about step lightly down the narrow staircase, clad in Narnian garments: a long indigo gown falling to the ground in as elegant waves as Susan's and Lucy's always have, the gold filigree in the sky blue corset catching the dim light beautifully, the long puff sleeves more familiar to him than any British style could ever be.

The sight strikes him dumb, a wave of nostalgia interweaving confusingly with a just as powerful one of longing admiration.

Somewhere in his stunned mind, he vaguely reflects that in all his years of walking through majestic halls among people who, by virtue of being part of a court, were usually the drivers of fashion as well as of literary, musical and artistic trends, no vision has appeared to him more lovely than Miss Jill Pole, splendid in her fine clothes, slowly descending their modest, narrow stairs.

A small anxious smile lights up her endearing face, a hand shoots up to nervously pat the elaborate hairdo that is giving a well-deserved shine to her beautiful auburn locks.

"Are you sure it's ok, Lucy?" she asks nervously, turning only a little to her companion.

Edmund barely registers his sister behind the red-haired girl... no, young lady. She is most certainly a Narnian Lady, as surely as he himself is a Knight. He can see it in the natural grace with which she handles her gown, despite obviously not being used to that kind of garments, and more still, in the hint of steel in her posture that betrays her inner strength, as well as the almost instinctive way she leaves herself the space to reach over her right shoulder – the way his sister Susan always used to do, the way every master archer he's ever met unconsciously does.

It's the most natural thing in the world, to step up with a hand courteously raised, an offer of help down the last steps, and a reassuring compliment already on his lips; as natural as the affectionate greeting to his sister.

Lucy gaily takes over the introductions and before he realizes he's escorting Jill to their small cosy sitting room; and it might be just two steps from the entryway, nothing like the long beautiful corridors of Cair Paravel, but it matters not.

It's a comfort – an unspeakably great one – to feel like the Knight he truly is once more, and no longer only in the privacy of his beloved siblings' presence. For that alone, he feels, he'll always be grateful to Jill.

It's as he leads her to the sofa, lively banter among them, that a somewhat odder understanding strikes him, however.

He is not known for his wisdom without reason, after all, and he knows himself enough to realize that it is not only 'comfort' that makes his heart flutter so, when a funny comment of his makes her giggle cutely.

A part of him nearly winches at the truth he feels dawning in his heart.

She is so young... her hand is small in his, her voice infantile, her tales narrated with vivacity but also with naivety... a child still. The wondrous air of Narnia might have worked its magic on her – he is sure that next to her age-mates, she will forever stand out with radiance, just like Lucy does, both as strong and beautiful as gold-moulded flowers, delicate in appearance but tempered and durable. Nevertheless...

He falters, just a little.

Then again, a child had he himself been too, when he'd become King.

And those who'd heard his doubts, his worries of not being enough, of not being worthy, had forever replied with one belief: that they wanted no-one else on his throne; that if they had to wait, the wait was worth it.

And in time, as is natural, he'd grown – grown in age, and grown into his role. So would Jill, he knew.

Narnia had waited.

So would he.

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_A/N:_ Somewhat inspired by: "_Eustace buried his fine clothes secretly one night in the school grounds, but Jill smuggled hers home and wore them at a fancy-dress ball next holidays." (The Silver Chair, Chapter Sixteen). And by the fact that I've always wanted to try this pairing.  
_


	4. Tonks and Eriol: LIGHTHEARTED

**Nymphadora Tonks** (J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter)

meeting

**Eriol Hiiragizawa** (CLAMP's Cardcaptor Sakura)

Set at the end of my 'Cardcaptor Harry'

* * *

**Light-hearted**

Walking briskly back towards the Auror HQ, Tonks smiles to herself. Of course she'll see him again. It's been... Merlin, she doesn't even know how long, since she's felt this... carefree. Untroubled.

Light-hearted.

Meeting Mr. Hiiragizawa... Eriol... has been so, so... _lively._

And she liked it.

Nothing in her life has been merry and vivid and simply carefree for such a long time.

The war has definitely taken its toll on her. On everything. These days, Tonks feels like she's but a sombre shadow of the lively girl she used to be. Grim and grey. And sad, and tired.

The war has taken it all... her innocence, her cheerfulness, her curiosity; her future, when Dolohov's curse struck true in her werewolf lover's chest; her hope, when the radio croaked her missing father's name in the monotone list of victims; her everything, when her mum, her steady safety net, her ever-loving warm embrace, fell to the maddened Aunt who murdered her own sister in cold blood.

Her losses are no different from everybody else's, but whoever claimed that a shared grief is a halved grief must have never lived through the horror of a war, and worse, through the loneliness of surviving it.

Her sorrow is forever renewed whenever she spots the unerasable traces of devastation under the slowly rebuilding façade of recovery, the lurking tears in eyes that force out fake cheerfulness when in public, the too many empty places in shops and homes and hearts.

Nowadays she goes through the motions as an Auror, out of duty more than anything, and she might well be thankful that her sense of responsibility is strong enough to keep her anchored, to quieten the depression and the hopelessness that is pushing her towards a choice of no return; but she feels dull and lifeless and every gesture is all but meaningless.

Grey and grim and dull and bleak – that's how everything has been in her current life.

Until him.

Eriol...

Unexpected is too narrow a word to describe the odd meeting that has brightened this otherwise unremarkable day. A meeting which the very occasion for has been so unusual and, well, funny, if she is to admit it.

She's been the one to receive the weird call for help. She remembers blinking at the 'concerned citizen' clamouring for the Aurors' intervention in mild shock.

Big winged cat-like monster obsessed with ice-cream in the Alley! Watch out!

Half the Auror office had burst out roaring with laughter.

No, seriously?

And then she and Williamson had gone to check it out, and the weirdness had gone up a notch with every passing minute. In a nice way, though. Nothing horrific or fearsome or nasty. Just... different. Foreign – but more because of the brightness and gaiety of the strange group than because of their being travellers.

Overcoming the notice-me-not spell and finally approaching the strangers who did, indeed, have a huge winged cat with them... eating ice-cream?... she'd pretended she wasn't torn between mild shock and the urge to snicker.

She'd engaged them in conversation, and it had been... nice. She'd forced herself to play the part of her old, cheerful self and it had been less taxing than usual.

They were polite... good-looking, no denying it... helpful... charming... and mysterious.

Especially Eriol.

Oh, of course the tall white-haired bloke had been the most striking. She's felt absolutely stupid around him, like a silly teenager mooning over her very first crush all over again. It's ridiculous, really. But she can console herself by thinking that it isn't natural and that maybe the bloke is some sort of male half-veela or something, even if she has no idea whether something like a male half-veela exists, because she is very, very sure that her reaction can't have been just because of his good looks. She's not that shallow.

She hopes.

Besides, once she'd forced herself to admit that she was behaving ludicrously, she'd been able to overcome the attraction. Sort of. _Mind over matter_, thunders her Auror trainer's booming voice in her memory, and she blushes, knowing that she's kept on faltering and stammering like a star-struck idiot around the poor bloke the whole time.

At least he wasn't a jerk about it. Kind of him to pretend not to notice, really...

Then again, they were all very polite, well except for the huge lofty kitty-cat thingie - and now that she thinks on it, she _still_ doesn't know what it was!

No matter.

Now that the whole episode is over, she realizes pensively that neither the gorgeous white-haired man nor the huge winged creature have truly left a lasting impression on her.

Same for their green-eyed companion, despite the fact that something about him spoke loudly to her magic of power and strength and of his being _important_, somehow, even if her instincts aren't any clearer than that. That kind of intensity should have attracted her like a flame attracts a moth, but instead, she can only let it slide, let _him_ slide, from her memory and attention with the ease of flowing water dripping away.

It is only _Eriol_ that stands out clearly and inescapably before her mind's eye; Eriol with his sophisticated politeness and warm yet distant personality and the kind bantering slowly morphing into light teasing and... dare she admit it?... flirting...

She would be hard pressed to list the oddly numerous ways he's managed to surprise her in just a handful of minutes – and how odd it is to realize that such an amazing meeting has been so short, in truth?

Yet it is without doubt the admiration in Eriol's grey eyes that shocks her all over whenever she recalls it and brings a blush to her cheeks even now.

Her gaze drops down to the pastel colours of the bouquet she's still holding and without even noticing she slows to a stop in the middle of the road. Roses and snowdrops.

She vaguely realizes that she's observing them as if they came from an alternate world. She cannot help it. She's just too stunned by their mere presence in her tightened hand. Flowers.

She's been given _flowers_.

Even when he'd proposed to her, mere days before his death, Remus had never managed to get her something so... frivolous. She wouldn't have wanted it either. The war had reshaped everybody's priorities. Flowers... flowers were superfluous, a pointless waste, a luxury for those who didn't understand what truly matters. Like supplies and ward anchors and fighters you can trust at your back.

But now she's been given flowers... brightly coloured and sweetly scented and _happy_ looking flowers – embodiments of everything her life no longer is – and... she likes it.

She likes _him_, even if she's unsure about admitting it.

His secretiveness, which only her Auror training allows her to recognize under his charming ways, his quiet humour that she's only just glimpsed but she definitely likes, his easy manipulation of those he interacts with, cloaked in his engaging manners, that makes him such a challenge...

His odd beliefs, too.

_Do you not feel as if our meeting must be blessed by a good star?_

How long has it been since she's heard someone mention destiny in a pick-up line? Worse still, how long since they appeared to _mean_ it?

Most of all, she likes his vibrancy. The air around him is charged, the colours of his world full and rich, the scents and sounds sharper and fuller.

And bright.

Even the black of his cascading robe is rich of light and colour – and it's _black_, for Merlin's sake, how can it possibly be colourful?

Yet somehow, it is.

And his vibrancy livens up her world.

He's intriguing.

He's bloody irritating, too. He makes confusing her into an art form, she's sure, and how he can possibly manage such a feat in the few short minutes he's known her she has no clue, but evidence speaks clearly on the matter.

There were several puzzling elements in the tale he's spun, and now that she thinks back on it, she can see them clearly, yet for some reason, while she was with him she kept finding herself distracted, her thoughts redirected.

And feeling as if she was a scoundrel for forcing him to explain stuff that made so perfect sense it should really have been obvious.

Except that it _wasn't_ obvious, not before he made it so at least, and it is _her job_ to ask questions, even the pedantic ones, when she is on an investigation. Yet for some odd reason he's talked himself around and out of it. And for some even odder reason _she doesn't mind._

She almost laughs out loud at the thought.

Eriol intrigues her and annoys her in equal measure.

She absently strokes the scar that marks her face, untouched by her Metamorphomagus skill because she considers it a memento of the close call that she almost-but-not-quite wishes hadn't missed after all, and she starts walking again.

Of course she'll meet him again...

How could she stay away?

Besides, he might even be right. It might be destiny...

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._


	5. Minerva and Seto: BUSINESS

**Minerva Paradizo **(Eoin Colfer's Artemis Fowl series)

meeting

**Seto Kaiba** (Kazuki Takahashi's _Yu-Gi-Oh_!)

Set sometime after both series

* * *

**Business**

An expensive, refined restaurant, sophisticated background music, excellent service.

Bodyguards at their back, of course, both of them are too well-known and too prominent to go anywhere unprotected, kidnapping and homicide very real and almost daily threats, though not nearly as vexing as the potential loss of confidential information to industrial spying or the general harassment of fans and whiny supplicants.

Deadly ambition, brusque coolness, matter-of-fact tones, insidious manipulations carefully wrapped in scrupulously correct manners; a swift back-and-forth of bids and counterbids, outmanoeuvring and gaining advantages, haggling for controlling shares and daring speculations: the future of a billionaire company hanging in the balance over the clinking of champagne flutes and the elegance of ivory table linens.

An all too familiar dance, made satisfactorily interesting by the sharp intelligence of both contenders, that makes every barbed exchange and every bold strike in the fight towards financial dominance a beautifully executed thrust or lunge, the harsh, cutting brilliancy of diamonds matched against the sharpness of a steel trap.

_He_ is the majority shareholder and CEO of his own multi-national gaming company, child prodigy grown into businessman of unparalleled skill. _She_ is the mastermind behind the success of her Paradizo Enterprises, child genius turned into fearsome financial shark.

They're both young. They're both influential, ruthless, powerful. They're both rich beyond imagination and so infinitely smarter than anybody around them that it's not even funny.

Definitely a match for each other.

They have danced around a face-off, carefully, for a long time now, cautiously attempting to outwit each other at a distance in all the usual ways, subsidiary companies takeovers and hijacking of joint ventures, shrewd business deals on the sly and judicious use of proxies.

Now it's finally time to meet in person, crossing metaphorical blades over a fine business meal and even better wine in the best restaurant Hong Kong has to offer.

Minerva Paradizo lets her fashionable, shimmering dress flutter elegantly in a studied game of now-you-see-me-now-you-don't, artfully shaking her head just so, making the most of the lightning to set her fine features off to the best advantage.

She suspects this particular opponent to be far too canny to be dazzled by her porcelain complexion and deep brown gaze as so many others before have. Still, you never know. She has it on good authority that she is "quite the beauty", she knows that her tight, blonde corkscrew curls, still as mincingly cute as when she was a child, turn heads wherever she goes. If her dinner companion will not be taken in by such arts, it will not be for lack of her trying. Everything's fair in this merciless, civilized battlefield; every advantage is worth it. She will leave no avenue unexplored.

Seto Kaiba wastes no time in pointless pleasantries or trite praising of the food and décor and he merely gives her a flat look that seems to say he sees through her act and is spectacularly unimpressed.

Politeness does not soften the curtness of his manners much, precision and exactness are the underlying pattern of his every interaction, his mask of indifferent calm the perfect shield to keep his cards close to his chest. Minerva is unfazed, she matches him with wittiness and charming smiles and scintillating nonchalance hiding her true goals effortlessly.

Neither loses sight for even one moment of the prize they're contending for; neither concedes an inch, in any form. Every thrust is parried with unflawed technique, every proposition countered by a perfectly balanced opposing one.

As the evening goes on, Minerva lets herself wonder, for just a fleeting moment. What would it be like, if all this were about more than trade deals and shareholding?

As she meets icy blue eyes in silent challenge she asks herself... What would it be like, to see the cool detachment in those shrewd orbs melt into affection... for _her..._?

Not that she will let herself be distracted by the possibility of romance. Oh, no.

She's been down that road before. It's over now.

Wasting years after the thrice damned Artemis Fowl II, who then had the utter _gull_ to dump her – her! – and leave her dumbfounded, outraged and humiliated. When everything pointed to the two of them being made for each other! Their amazing IQ, their shared interests evidenced by their various degrees, their peculiar sense of humour, the mad adventure they'd shared, even their respective families' wishes...

But no, he disregarded everything that was owed her and abandoned her indifferently – for a boy no less!

Whatever.

She's learned her lesson and has since limited herself to a long line of very decorative skiers and swimming champions, as amusing and entertaining as they were unimportant. Her mother had it right, when she ran off with their gardener; Minerva can see it now.

Besides, no matter how right Artemis appeared to be, she shouldn't have invested so much time and money and effort in him. It should have been _him _chasing her, if anything. No way will she ever again make the mistake of mixing feelings and finance.

But what would it be like, if this particular meeting led to another... of a very different kind? If this association of two like-minded geniuses for purely economic purposes turned into something more, something a part of her craves despite all her hard-earned cynicism and ruthlessness?

She must confess, even if only to herself, that the lithe, elegant form of Kaiba, the grace of his managing his trademark sleeveless coat, his dark bangs just begging to be stroked, make her just a touch wistful...

But no.

It's just business.

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._


	6. Reeve and Hermione: AFFINITY

**Reeve Tuesti **(Square's Final Fantasy VII Compilation)

meeting

**Hermione Granger** (J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter)

Set during the nineteen years after the Hogwarts Battle,  
and between Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus

* * *

**Affinity**

The mob of worried workers and uncertain infantrymen breaks and parts with a sense of nervous relief in front of him.

Reeve Tuesti knows what they're seeing: a handsome man in his forties, dressed in a navy blue trench coat, with black, short hair, matched by a neatly trimmed beard and moustache and with dark eyes that look weary – how can they not, when he's seen all that he's seen? – but are still tinged with kindness and empathy, the qualities that pushed him to found the World Regenesis Organization and throw himself into rebuilding a new – and dare he say it? _better_ – version of what Meteor destroyed.

Most of all, he is well aware, they see the boss – someone who will, by simple virtue of being top dog, have all the answers.

Supposedly, at least.

His tall frame moves, despite his inner, unvoiced doubts, with an air of confidence and authority: he is used, by now, to being the one in charge, the one these people who gather around him look to. He's been their leader for a while after all.

In spite of this, he falters and gulps at the sight that meets him: because to _this_, he is not used yet – and he thinks he'll never be, for if all that he's seen (massive bio-mechanical engines of destruction and sweet-scented healing rain washing away the black ooze of Geostigma and ancient maze-like temples crumbling into nothing and ethereal green streams shooting up from the Planet itself to fight the humongous Meteor ready to impact and the list could go on), hasn't steeled him against being flabbergasted at the universe's craziness, he doesn't know that anything ever will.

So he ogles the thin breach of purplish-greenish light that bends the air, emitting a soft glow in spinning rings, with a sombre expression.

Disbelieving, still.

And worried, always: somehow, he can't bring himself to hope this... phenomenon... will be a harmless occurrence.

Orders snap out more on autopilot than he would like – secure the area, keep people back where it's (hopefully) safe, get some experts here to figure this out, get some _warriors _here just in case... - but the truth is, he is unsure of how to deal with this and even as he knows everybody breathes easier when he gives them _something to do_, his cautious nature is all but screaming at him to stand still, stay silent, watch and understand and not do anything rash.

Thankfully, he is not truly alone here. Whoever coined that saying about friends being gold was certainly right. Case in point... Yuffie, cocky and brash and overconfident as always, loudly claims that as Head of the Espionage and Intelligence division of the WRO, this is _her_ show and she will damn well run it and she gets everybody jumping about in mere minutes, directing his people with the loud determination and sheer dominance of a Cid Highwind in his rocket construction site.

He lets her, a little amused at the Treasure Princess' typical bullheaded approach to life's many challenges, a little relieved that she's giving him a chance to watch from the sidelines, to come up with his strategy and be ready when the time comes to get her (and them all) out of the dangerous scraps she'll no doubt manage to throw herself into.

But as it turns out, the breach that continues to buzz softly and spin weirdly coloured light in rings really isn't anything horrific or dangerously threatening and he doesn't know how to properly express how unbelievably relived and grateful – and under it all, disbelieving – he is that nothing too completely out of the ordinary is awaiting them beyond the odd rupture hanging low in mid-air.

In fact, what they find on the other side seems to be... much what is on this side: a cautiously probing exploration team, with a side dish of 'unspeakables', which seem to him to be their version of scientists (and he has a quiet, bitter laugh at the name that in his experience is sadly more appropriate for what the scientists _do_).

Oh, there are differences of course – fascinating ones, mostly – in society (they appear perplexed by the presence of military, oddly enough), in fashion (are those robes?), in history (obviously) and politics (somewhat more surprisingly, he thinks, given that they're still human and all) and language (though that is a problem quickly solved when a nation of that world – Janap? Jasan? no, _Japan_ – turns out to speak Wutaian, or is it that Wutai speaks their language? and anyway between Reeve's own technology and their version of it they're soon all talking with each other) and even in things that he's always given for granted like dumbapples being purple (he is really, really queasy at the idea of eating a _green_ one) and the way magic works (wands to channel it – can you spell weird?).

But anyway, it is a matter of mere hours before the situation is contained, the breach confirmed to be the unexpected result of an experiment of theirs accidentally interfering with one of the WRO's attempts at finding a different source of energy – _fascinating chance, _he and the woman who is his counterpart in role agree – and teams of scientists from both worlds are working with alacrity to re-separate their realities.

He wonders with a tiny little bit of worry what it says about him that the normalcy and lack of threat of it all is stranger and more unsettling to him than a cosmic disaster would be. That making polite small talk with his counterpart from the other world – _so sorry, please, let us handle repairs, a show of good-will; no harm done, could've happened to anyone, let's just fix this – _feels more disturbing than contemplating the oddly gleaming breach itself.

For once in his life everything is actually going smoothly, and it's spooking him.

When he realizes this, Reeve allows himself to take a deep breath and lets the tension coiled in his shoulders go, little by little.

And then, right when he is finally relaxing and his mind is no longer tied up in knots trying to foresee all the ways this entire situation is going to go to hell and is almost ready to accept that it is not, in fact, degenerating into a Planet-threatening crisis, his perception of the whole day is rocked by a sudden realization: an abrupt clarity that blooms inside him quietly, unassumingly, but with the force of an earthquake that shakes him deeply.

Something _important_ has happened today, amidst all the madness. Something that he had long ago given up hope of ever experiencing.

He has met a kindred soul.

His eyes slide sideways to the amazing woman standing at his side. Hermione Granger-Weasley, Head of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad and _de facto_ leader of the group who is working on the breach from the 'other side'.

Who has been his companion for the last few hours, both to handle the cautious politicking that is always needed in such instances and to keep him company – or is it the other way round? him keeping _her_ company? - while he does his job – and she hers, which is basically the same and amounts to nothing more than supervising the whole thing.

Bushy brown hair drawn and twisted into an attempt at a severe bun, but which escape the confines of the hairdo, unruly, curling endearingly around her intelligent face. Steel-like determination in every pointed instruction and impatient order she snaps at her squad, authoritative bossiness that clearly hasn't been taken out of her the way it happened to him, thanks to ShinRa's vicious mediocrity. Chocolate brown eyes that light up before mysteries and problems, big or small, with a feeling that he himself experiences often, but has been forced to learn to hide... the joy of speculation for the sake of brain-teasing speculation, that he so rarely enjoys, and never freely, because no-one truly understands...

All throughout the day, he now recalls with a clearer mind, there have been a number of little moments of shared – how can he describe it? Likeness. And liking. _Complicity._ An understanding that he has given up finding in his range of acquaintances, almost convinced that it is an oddity of his, a unique quirk of his mind perhaps. At least until he sees it mirrored in this amazing, alien woman who is so similar to him.

He wishes he'd caught this sooner, because even in remembrance he's enjoying the quiet agreement of views immensely and what would have happened if he'd been relaxed, able to delight in it fully? If he'd relished properly the scattered, understated instances of glee at joint speculation around the odd breach, of quiet humour acknowledged with the barest of smirks, of tasteful, companionable discussion of the impossibilities they've experienced, of shared exasperation at the necessity to keep their respective idiotic politicians from knowing/exploiting the situation...?

They have _so much_ in common. It's uncanny. It feels, at the same time, as if the world has been propelled into a different frame and register, and as if nothing has changed at all. Radical transformation and immutability in the same event.

He doesn't really know what to do with his almost sudden epiphany.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

The words slip out of his mouth almost before they've crossed his mind. It's embarrassing, a little, but he cannot bring himself to regret it.

She raises a surprised eyebrow at him and he fakes a nonchalance that he doesn't really feel: "They're doing fine here, they'll survive without supervision for a little while. There is this nice place in Edge... the woman who runs it, Tifa, used to own a bar called Seventh Heaven Below Plate and she's doing a fine job of recreating it now..."

He trails off, uncomfortable with her little frown.

He knows he has asked it impulsively – which is not like him at all – and that it can be misconstrued – even if he only wants a chance at spending time with her now that he's realized what she means to him, it could be taken to be a different kind of invitation... one that he knows is not to be – and for a moment he's absurdly bitter.

This Hermione is someone he has dreamed of... someone with whom he has a feeling of natural affinity, someone of similar intellect – not _interests_, but actual intellectual level – and of likely-inclined philosophical and ethical approach to life... so almost against all logic, a part of him wonders: what would it be like, to take her on a date – a proper one?

He promptly chides himself, but the truth remains. For the first time in his life, Reeve has felt a sharp pang of disappointment at spying a wedding band on a woman's ring-finger.

But a moment later she's off with questions about the Plate and that was _his_ project and no matter how badly it was misused and how poorly it ended up, he cannot keep the enthusiasm from his voice as he tells her – _everything._ Like he's never had a chance to do before, because who on Planet would have understood?

She does, though. He can see it in her eyes.

Oh, if they'd just met under different circumstances...

They make their way leisurely to the Seventh Heaven, and they shift from one topic to the next easily, without even noticing the time going by.

Reeve doesn't remember a time when he's felt more in tune with his companion, more at ease; he can't tell what part of their shared evening is the best – if it's when they get into a mocking contest while bemoaning how misunderstood and downtrodden but still smarter than all the rest of greedy ministerial/military pigs they fight against they are, or when they confide to each other the meanings of their names over a cup of strong Gongagan coffee (him a bailif, the administrator of a King, she a messenger and travelling scholar), or when they almost inevitably circle back to discussing pollution (one of Reeve's main concerns, of necessity, and something she, too, has campaigned against at times – and who would have thought that oil could end up having as bad effects as mako in the long run? They really needed to learn how Cosmo Canyon did things...)

Maybe the best part is when they simply enjoy each other's silence and Tifa's best banana cake with cream cheese frosting.

He's not entirely sure it matters, anyway: Reeve can't remember when was the last time he's had such a good evening.

She even likes cats as much as he does.

They return to the curtained off area where the teams of scientists and wizards are still working; slowly, leisurely, chatting companionably as they stroll through the ruins of what was once Midgar and the heartening but too few signs of reconstruction.

Abruptly, one of her subordinates informs them that everything is ready to close the breach. It is time for her to leave.

Reeve smiles politely, she smiles warmly back, he accompanies her to the passing point, chivalrous, she jokes kindly about his old-fashioned courtesy, thanks him sincerely for the wonderful evening, takes a deep breath, Reeve steels himself for a goodbye that he doesn't want to say, startled at the force of his desire to keep Hermione here, or at least to keep in touch.

He pushes it all down – it is not to be, he's known it all along – and smiles his goodbye, she returns them in kind... is it regret he sees in her eyes?

Or is he deceiving himself?

Flattering himself with the thought that she, too, has felt the incredible, inexplicable, affinity that links their souls?

She is gone, and he sighs.

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._


	7. Nasuada and Tseng: EARTHQUAKE

**Lady Nasuada of the Varden **(Christofer Paolini's Inheritance cycle)

meeting

**Tseng of the Turks** (Square's Final Fantasy VII Compilation)

Set after the capture of Feinster, and during Before Crisis

* * *

**Earthquake**

Her eyes snap open in the darkness and she has a moment of frightening disorientation before realizing that no, she's not trapped in a nightmare: the earth is quaking.

She cannot see anything, even the usually comforting deeper shadows of her familiar living space are distorted and unrecognisable in the deep darkness, but she can hear familiar trinkets rattling, the furniture trembling, and she can feel it, reverberating into her very bones.

The night seems terrifyingly empty, as if the world has been emptied of all life and she is the only creature left in Alagaësia.

She feels small and fights down a pitiful whimper that is chocking her throat as she cannot help curling up on herself in a foetal ball, making herself as small as possible.

Waiting for it to end.

A part of her, the forceful, brave and controlling Commander of the Allied Army, tries to stomp down on her panicked reaction, telling herself with more calm than her frantically beating heart should allow that it is just an earthquake – a natural occurrence – nothing to warrant such fear, she's in a tent after all, the worst that can happen is that she'll have to fight her way out of the cloth if it crashes down...

It's useless.

The irrational fear gripping her is too atavistic to combat. Her terror might not be justified, but then, that's why she acknowledges that it's irrational. The earth is quaking and she is just a small, frightened child.

She remains still and tense for all of the long, long seconds the earthquake lasts.

An eternity, waiting for it to end.

Every second is as long as a minute. Minutes, if it lasted that long, would stretch into hours. A part of her is convinced that the night encasing her will never stop trembling.

Deep down, where her inner child still lives, she cries out silently for her father, wishing desperately to feel his strong hand carding through her hair gently, reassuringly, the way he used to do when she was small and had trouble falling asleep.

But Ajihad is dead and she has taken his place, proudly and, she hopes, worthily, but being a leader means that she cannot afford to show any weaknesses, that she cannot look for comfort in anyone anymore.

Not even when the world is quaking around her and the unnervingly silent night feels like it's crumbling upon her.

She's never felt so alone.

The trembling tapers off and doesn't still, but only because her body is jittery with the muscle memory of the lurching, unsettling feeling of the earthquake. It is over, though it doesn't feel so.

She draws a shaky breath, forcing her cramped muscle to distend, ignoring the slight ache panic has left in them. A grimace twists her mouth in displeasure. The great Nasuada, revered Warlord, Lady Nightstalker... cowering on her cot like a toddler scared of the dark. What would her people say, if they saw her now?

The thought drags her out of the last vestiges of her terror and onto her feet with at least a shadow of her usual steel-like determination.

Walking is a chore because her balance is wobbly still and her ears are only slowly stopping ringing with the rattles the earthquake provoked.

She refuses to show it, and it takes only one stumble and a hissed curse to gain control of herself, with a firmness that is almost brutal, and stalk out of the tent straight and proud.

There is less chaos than she feared to find and she feels a wave of satisfaction at seeing her people – Varden and Surdans alike, Urgals side by side with Dwarves, Carvahall Villagers and members of the Wandering Tribes and even the Werecats, all together – work quickly and efficiently to put out the few fires, restore what fell or crumbled, assist those who've been injured, thankfully lightly.

Such cooperation is a mark that she's doing a good job as a leader greater than any success in battle could ever be.

Seeing that neither damages nor injuries are truly serious and that the few instances of panic are quickly calmed by her mere presence, Nasuada feels free to turn her attention to Trianna, who – as is irritatingly typical for the Head of the Du Vrangr Gata – is not doing _anything_ to help, but seems determined to catch Nasuada's attention anyway.

This time, however, it turns out that the diplomatic decision of stifling the familiar irritation against the magician is a good one, because instead of weaving yet another attempt at gaining more power within the Alliance, Trianna succinctly states: "It wasn't natural, the earthquake. Magic originated it."

Nasuada almost feels her heart fail at the implications: a magical attack of this magnitude... They are used, somewhat, to Eragon and Saphira's devastating power and they know, intellectually, that Murtagh can do the same and that Galbatorix has even vaster abilities, but still! If a magician on their level was nearby, they should have _felt_ it, should have been warned... if their enemy has found a way to effect the earth itself like that _at a distance_...

She bites her lower lip viciously to stem the rising desperation. It's just this lengthy war fraying her nerves. She must not give in to her dark thoughts, her people need her to be strong.

Trianna takes her to what she calls the epicentre, an area of barren wastelands and broken items under crumbled tents. Dust is everywhere, puffing and twirling almost like smoke. The few bystanders are slightly coughing and keeping at some distance. Nasuada recognizes three members of the Du Vrangr Gata casting what she is reasonably convinced are detection spells. Probably trying to figure out for sure what happened.

"It is not a form of magic we're familiar with," is saying Trianna, an edge of nervousness in her voice. "It almost seems as if the energy powering it comes from the earth itself, rather than any living creature..."

Nasuada's blood turns cold.

_Dear Gods, no! Don't let Galbatorix have found a way to turn Alagaësia itself against us!_

She slows to a stop, unsure. There is less devastation than she feared, but the ground looks like a giant plough has turned it over. A few corpses are scattered among the chunks of upturned earth, all human, all clad in garments foreign for cloth and shape – Nasuada breathes in silent relief that none of hers have been involved in the disaster.

Then her eye is caught by movement: a lone man is laboriously standing amidst the clouds of dust, clearly in pain and disoriented.

He is wearing a dark blue set of garments consisting of a light, long-sleeved jacket and trousers made from the same cloth, with a collared white shirt underneath; Nasuada vaguely decides that, though unusual, the attire is elegant, even though now it is dirty and torn. His shoulder-length black hair is falling in disarray all around his back but leave his forehead bare and the dot-shaped mark in the middle of it in sharp evidence. Nasuada wonders if it is a religious symbol or just a matter of fashion. His clothes are odd enough that she would not venture to guess his or his people's taste in ornamentation.

He has a tanned complexion with yellowish undertones: a colour that she's never before seen and she feels a brief spike of kinship, because she knows what it's like to be different.

The feeling disappears instantly when she catches the gaze of his peculiar, almond-shaped black eyes: cold, expressionless, calculating, _dangerous._

Neither she nor any other of the present say a word as the stranger climbs to his feet and recovers his composure more quickly than she expects. No-one offers him any help. He doesn't need any.

His self-possession is astounding. Nasuada watches him like a hawk, tense and waiting to see what he will do: that is, she suspects, the only reason she catches the brief moment of shock and sorrow he inadvertently displays when he catches sight of the corpses, before hiding everything that he thinks and feels, everything that he _is_, behind a mask of neutral blankness so perfect it makes her shiver.

He checks the pulse of one of the bodies, the only one dressed like him, Nasuada notices, and bows his head in grief when he finds him dead; just for a moment. The other corpses, he shows absolutely no concern over.

Unhurriedly, he looks around, scanning the people and the area, taking in and cataloguing everything.

Just as Nasuada is thinking that it is up to her to do something – anything – to react to the situation, his dark, cold eyes land upon her and there is more knowledge there than should reasonably be. He is, Nasuada uneasily admits, assessing the situation much better than she is or ever could. She feels outclassed and she doesn't like it one bit. She clenches her jaw, her mind sharpening with the kind of determination that has let her win the Trial of the Long Knives and establish her dominance over the Urgali.

He makes his way leisurely but surely to her, walking with catlike grace, danger in his every move. She's seen assassins move like that. And spies.

Uneasy, she scrutinizes him with narrow eyes.

"Lady," he bows his head a fraction, politely. "Am I right in assuming you are the leader of these people?"

She narrows her eyes even more, wondering what gave her away. Furtive looks from the others? Her own countenance? A combination of factors? It doesn't matter, but it is unnerving that a stranger could pinpoint her so unerringly.

"I am," she replies curtly.

He nods, unsurprised. "I am Tseng of the Turks," he says, and his eyes are sharp watching for her reaction. Nasuada has never heard of such a tribe though, so she doesn't give anything away. After a moment, he nods again, looking satisfied.

Nasuada takes a steadying breath, aware that the following exchange would be of essential importance, and starts off the line of questioning that will, hopefully, clarify the whats and whys of the unnatural earthquake.

What follows amounts to a veritable interrogation – but to Nasuada's irritation, it feels like _she_ is the subject rather than him.

The man must be an expert interrogator, because he gets more from her than she wanted to give, despite her resistance training, and more still from others who blurt out answers to his level, unhurried questions, even with Nasuada glaring at them to silence them.

She, on the other hand, gets almost nothing from him and even if the absolute indifference to the name Galbatorix is somewhat reassuring, she is frustrated beyond belief.

At last he looks in the distance.

"So... I guess the experimental Exit-Earth materia fusion wasn't as ready as the Science Department claimed..." he murmurs quietly.

He looks at her again: "I don't suppose you know how to send me back?" he asks.

Nasuada's frown has been getting darker by the minute and it doesn't ease in the least, but at the question, she glances at Trianna, who takes an involuntary step back, looking alarmed.

"I have no idea of what magic could even bring him here..." the magician admits nervously, her eyes darting convulsively to the unnerving stranger.

He nods again, as if he expected nothing different: "Then I will have to make a life for myself among you, I suppose."

Nasuada is irked by the assumption. "What makes you even think we have any use for you?" she snaps.

His blank expression is tinged with amusement, like an adult silently laughing at a capricious child. Nasuada is grateful to her dark skin when she feels heat in her cheeks.

"You are in a war," he points out with utter neutrality, but she hears the unspoken message loud and clear: they are a rebel group fighting an overpowered enemy, they need all the help they can get. And someone with his training – because it is obvious that he is trained – would be more than just 'of use'.

Despite this, she isn't very willing to consider the option.

Tseng's arrival has unsettled her equilibrium badly: he has the effect of an inner earthquake to match the physical one that has accompanied his appearance. If he stays, his presence will change the balance of power in ways she is unable to predict and likely provoke inner fights they can simply not afford. Not to mention the fact that she knows next to nothing about him and is not about to trust a stranger, even if he wasn't such a dangerous one.

He is still watching her steadily however and a worse thought than accepting his offer strikes her. Someone with his training could be of use to Galbadorix, too.

She thins her lips, unhappily.

She fears that she's making a mistake, but how goes the old saying? Keep your friends close...

"Follow me. We'll get you situated and assess your skills," she says rather brusquely.

He bows a little and it feels nothing like respect or submissiveness; then follows her quietly, frighteningly alert. Nasuada does a good job at pretending he isn't unnerving her. She thinks.

Even in the future, after accepting his oath of service, she will never fully trust him.

But her eyes return to him a thousand times that first night.

And not less often in the days to come.

* * *

_Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._


End file.
